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"Not yet. But the Season should solve that problem."
Emma cocked her head and studied the sudden tension around his eyes. "You are so troubled by it. Are you one of those who despises the cits and their vulgar money?"
Lancaster sighed and smiled, his brown eyes shining with wry humor. "No, it's not that. It is just stubbornness, I suppose, mixed with a splash of romanticism and perhaps a touch of pride."
"A touch?"
"No more, I assure you." His laughter faded and, facing him like this, the sun at her back, Emma saw true weariness in his eyes and not a little sadness. He shook his head. "He kept us all in the dark, you know." His voice had tamed quiet and serious. "My mother . . . my brother and sister, they all refuse to see the truth of it. But I cannot help but see it. The creditors will not stop showing me."
His sad smile touched her heart. Emma reached out and took one of his hands in hers. "There are just as many lovely girls among the cits as there are among the ton. More even."
"Of course."
"You will find someone who will make you forget that she brings twenty thousand a year."
Lancaster laughed again, his normal, open laugh, and Emma smiled and squeezed his hand.
"I do wish your husband had left you some money. Have you not managed to earn your fortune yet?"
"I'm sorry."
"Well, you should be. The perfect woman right before me and not a shilling to her name."
"Perfectly scandalous, at any rate." Emma was still smiling as they turned onto her street. The smile froze when she caught sight of a man's profile in the distance, delicate and pale. He stood almost a block away and the brim of his hat threw a shadow over his face, but she felt a jolt of recognition. Her gut tightened with fear.
"Lady Denmore?" Lancaster turned to look over his shoulder. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing," she murmured as the figure turned and walked in the opposite direction. She recognized that walk, she was almost certain of it. Almost. "Nothing," she said again, more strongly.
"I'm not convinced. You must tell me if something is wrong. Ever."
Emma forced herself to meet his eyes and smile. "Someone walked over my grave. That is all."
He glanced over his shoulder again, clearly doubtful. But the carriage had pulled to a halt, and he could do nothing but descend and offer her a hand.
"It has been a lovely afternoon," Emma murmured.
"A beautiful afternoon," Lancaster agreed. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but Emma gently extracted her hand from his and moved up the stairs. She managed to say a happy farewell, but her face fell as she closed the door behind her.
She waited for the sound of Lancaster's carriage moving away before she shouted, "Bess, I need your cloak. Hurry!"
With the hood of Bess's brown cloak pulled low over her face, she could pass anyone without being recognized. It couldn't have been Matthew. It was nothing, just as Burl Smythe had been nothing, and she would not live in fear for days because of some stranger's profile. She would search the street and shops and find the man and put her worry to rest within the quarter hour.
She heard a noise from the first story and rushed up the stairs. "Bess, I need—"
Bess emerged from the parlor and held up a hand. "You've a visitor, ma'am. I know I shouldn't 'ave—"
Emma's heart dropped. She glanced back toward the front door, knowing it couldn't be Matthew in her home, even if it had been him on the street. It must be . . .
"Hart," she gasped when he stepped into the hallway. Bess's face turned red. She knew she should not have admitted a gentleman without Emma's consent. Then again, she couldn't very well turn away the duke who had saved her from her husband's fists.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Bess offered with a nervous curtsy.
"It's fine."
Hart inclined his head with a completely remorseless smirk. There was no way to be rid of him in time to follow the man, so Emma just took the last two steps up to the first floor. "Bring tea," she sighed.
Hart's soft huff of sardonic laughter almost made her smile.
